


Plastic

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Anal Sex, Derogatory Language, F/M, Face Slapping, Hate Sex, Hotel Sex, Please Don't Hate Me, Rival Sex, Rough Sex, Touring, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 19:57:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20364244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: The tension of the Beautiful Monsters tour finally comes to a head.TW: hate sex, cocaine, literal trash talk, gigantic unyeilding egos.





	Plastic

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know. It's arguably the worst pair, written at their worst. Everyone's terrible and nobody wins. It's fiction and fiction isn't always pretty. Take it or leave it. 💚

She'd called the front desk and complained about the noise. Ginger didn't say it. He just apologized and hung up the phone, then pretended it didn't happen. He was trying to keep the peace. But he didn't have to spell it out. That fucking bitch.

Marilyn leaned over the table again, came up holding his nose and fuming. Pogo was telling a story but he wasn't listening. He was staring at the door.

_ Who the fuck did she think she was? _

He launched from the couch. The boys called after him, offering drinks. They said she wasn't worth it. They were right. She wasn't. But she didn't seem to know that. And it was high time he made her understand.

He clenched his anger in one fist and knocked politely with the other. He listened. A murmur on the other side reminded him that he was visible through the peephole. He mustered some bullshit story. He'd come to apologize or something. He just wanted to talk and whatever.

The door cracked, held by the chain. Lank blond hair swung by and a single eye looked him up and down. Eric. Manson swallowed and let his face go lax. It was a practiced look that came in handy surprisingly often. The door closed and there was more mumbling.

It opened wider and Erlandson slipped out. Marilyn ignored his dismissive glance. He slid into the hotel room and closed the door.

She was standing with one hand on her hip, her eyes narrowed. Her pink tank top and purposefully torn skirt were wrinkled. She reeked of stale smoke and decaying plastic. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip her head off. He didn't have a plan, but he headed toward her with long strides.

She met him, wrapped her cigarette-stained hand around the back of his neck, and yanked him down. The action knocked him off-balance. His arms came forward to break his fall. But he landed face-first on her mouth.

It was like kissing a bicycle tire.

Manson shoved her back. She slapped him, nails grazing his cheekbone. Blood rushed everywhere. He grabbed her boney shoulders and walked her back until she hit the wall. She glared at him.

He growled low in his throat and leaned down. He took her swollen rubber lips and chewed them. One hand crassly groped at her tits, public-use plastic bags. He pulled her shirt up and dug his fingertips into the soft polymer of her breast. 

She whined. Of course she did. It fanned Marilyn's frustration and he tore at the tank. One strap snapped. She pulled at his t-shirt. He took it off and threw it so she'd stand fucking still, then ripped her stylishly shabby skirt all the way through.

The flimsy fabric fell away and he looked at her with contempt. She preened like a rehab Barbie. It was disgusting. He turned her around and pressed her cheek into the wall. The view of her skinny ass was an improvement, but not by much.

It didn't seem to inconvenience her at all. She wriggled her hips, hooked her panties with her thumbs and slid them down. She was asking for it. He didn't bother trying to think, popping the buttons on his jeans. He dug inside until he found the only weapon he'd brought.

His cock was just as angry as he was, thick and red. Marilyn spread his feet a bit to get the right height. He slicked himself with spit. She kicked her hips out. He wedged his girth into her body, a little too dry and way too hard. It nearly lifted her off of her feet.

She squealed and grunted like a pig as he fucked her. She called him a bastard, a self-centered asshole. She told him to go deeper. He drew the line at giving instructions. Three fingers in her mouth shut her up. She responded by reaching back to pull his hips in. 

Manson slapped her hands away and pulled out. She spun around and pushed him back. He could see her eyes trailing down his scarred stomach to his cock. She scoffed and rolled her eyes. 

The coal in his chest caught fire. He grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her toward the bed. It was covered in clothes and handwritten pages that crinkled and tore when she landed on her back. Her face betrayed how much she needed this, how deeply the tension had burrowed, how coveted a prize he'd become. He didn't want to see it.

Marilyn flipped her over and posed her like the blow-up doll she was, legs and arms wide. He was pathetic, she said, a fiend and a hack. He yanked her head back by her dirty blonde hair and spat between her cheap acrylic teeth. He mounted her, smashing her face into the mattress.

Her mouth may have been full of bile but her cunt was greased well enough. He lunged. She screamed and arched. He pushed her shoulder down. She mewled, struggling to adjust to the depth the new position afforded. Manson smirked.

After a long pause, he set a rough, mean pace. Every thrust vibrated through his pelvis. He imagined his hips turning black and blue. A lock of hair fell into his face as he leaned forward for a better angle. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that the silky warmth around his cock was someone - anyone - else.

But she wouldn't shut the fuck up. She hissed accusations, most of them true. She called him a whore and a has-been. Marilyn could've argued. Instead he slowed his strokes and stuffed a denim jacket sleeve in her mouth. She bit down on his thumb. 

He sat back on his heels and shook the pain out of his hand. She looked back at him: roxi-blue eyes, splotched pink cheeks, rubber lips and nicotine hair. Manson pushed her head back down. He didn't want to see it.

As he got into position again, the head of his cock rubbed against her ass. A filthy moan leaked from around her mouthful of fabric. Marilyn took the hint. He sucked his thumb for a few seconds, then rubbed it against her hole. 

It didn't take much. His thumb had its revenge, pushing and twisting. Her deep groans beat the hell out of her vocals. He leveraged his arm and pressed until he hit the webbing of his hand. His fingers brushed against her cunt.

She was dripping. Of course she was. Manson gathered a palmful of her slime and spread it over his cock. He couldn't give less of a shit about her, but he didn't want to chafe. He took his thumb back, used it to angle his shaft, and pushed.

She jerked and squealed, tried to push back. Her body rippled and clung to him. It was like fucking a trash can, but his cock didn't care. The sucking heat and her shrill yelps settled low in his hips. He threw his weight onto her back, plowed into her ass with every bit of rage and coke and fear he had.

He jerked the sleeve gag away. He dug his fingers into the Fleshlight of her mouth, pulled it open as wide as he could. He wanted to see his cum bubble up in her throat and drip from her nose. He wanted to hear her choke on it. The thought of it, vile and vengeful, was the final piece.

Marilyn sped up. The slapping of their flesh was eclipsed by a strained roar as he unloaded inside of her. His entire body went into spasms. At some point he sank his teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to be used as evidence in court. The static in his head throbbed with each spray.

He collapsed onto her back and rode out the post-orgasmic DTs. Gradually, the static cleared. He realized what he'd done. Was that a pang of shame? He rolled away and wiped his cock on something light-colored. He hoped it would stain.

Jesus, she was talking again. It was probably the same speech she gave everyone who was dumb or desperate enough to screw her. She thought they'd made a connection. They could talk a while. She could order pizza. It was as tinny and fake as a laugh track.

Manson wobbled like a foal. He found his cell phone on the floor where it had fallen from his pocket. He started to type out a text while she babbled on. He'd made a decision. Could one of them call her room and let her know?

The phone started ringing. He buttoned his pants and pulled his shirt back on, then stood and watched her listen. Her mouth fell open. She was off the tour. She could tell the press whatever to save face. It didn't matter. She'd been used, just like she wanted, and it was over.

She sat on the edge of the bed and railed at him. Why couldn't he say it to her face? Why the hell did he fuck her? What about the money? What was she supposed to do now? He smirked and looked at her like the plastic meat she was, then turned toward the door.

_ Where the fuck did he think he was going? _


End file.
